My Games are Unbroken (3/29/06)
Kneeling and collecting the pieces,
Sweeping them together,
Digging the odd few out of a crack in the floorboards,
I put together that old, broken puzzle;
And the full picture unfurls itself,
Vibrant and clear at last.
Move to the table to collect
Kings, queens, knaves, and fools all:
Rebuilding my house of cards,
Sheltering it from the wind
And persevering through sighs.
The ace of spades I tuck in my pocket, close to me.
I don’t want to lose it ever again.
Glance at the pick-up sticks,
Restack them and see their colors truly,
But then put them on the shelf.
I don’t need them today, or tomorrow,
Maybe not ever again.
Stand and walk to the window
And open it,
Letting the hopeful scent of spring
Into this sunny room.
And finally, finally
My games are unbroken.
Yes, this poem is supposed to be read with Broken Games, as a reverse:
Broken Games (12/11/05)
If I had a closed box earlier,
Now I fear the puzzle pieces are spilled.
And feel free to laugh
As I scrabble to pick them up
Off the cold hardwood floor,
Knowing it’s a lost cause.
Watch it all,
As my card house tumbles down
And away in a tornado,
Never to be regained.
The last card to go is my ace of spades.
And last, there the pick-up sticks
Clatter to the floor,
A mockery of color.
Did they slip from my hand,
Or did I drop them?